


They Searched for Blue

by leakypaintpen



Category: Marvel, Marvel 616
Genre: Alternate Universe - 1980s, Alternate Universe - No Powers, F/M, Journalism, Organized Crime, Undercover
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-01-08
Updated: 2017-01-08
Packaged: 2018-09-15 17:03:15
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,679
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9247166
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/leakypaintpen/pseuds/leakypaintpen
Summary: Working on a story to expose a network of criminal ties, Natasha finds an ally who's not as he seems. Then again, neither is she.





	

**Author's Note:**

  * For [SafelyCapricious](https://archiveofourown.org/users/SafelyCapricious/gifts).



> For SafelyCapricious' prompt for an undercover AU. Hope you enjoy!  
> Title from "Masks" by Shel Silverstein. Everything that's in this fic, I learned from Hollywood.

Squinting against the lights pulsing in time to the booming house music, Nancy shimmied her way through the smoke-filled club, her tray of drinks swooping and clinking with her movements. Despite the weeknight and the doorman’s selectiveness, the place was bursting with people she had to swerve around to avoid – laughing girls with blown-out hair and shiny blouses skittering on and off the dance floor, thronged by sweat-faced guys giving their best John Travolta impressions and rubbing shoulders with the odd B-list celebrity. Even the booths and tables she was headed towards were all occupied by dancers cooling off with drinks or enjoying the high off a hit, or men in suits draping their arms and jackets over willowy blondes.

The booth she was serving was one of the latter, a group of regulars whose usual orders she knew by heart. She smiled at each of the middle-aged men as she set their drinks before them, giving the blond with a combover an eyeful of her cleavage as she bent over the table to reach his side and ignoring his hand on her ass. As she stood to leave, the hand tightened into a grab of her hip.

“You get off shift soon, baby?” he yelled over the music.

Nancy looked at her watch. “About 10 minutes, and then I gotta clean up a bit. Why?”

“We’re gonna leave pretty soon, go back to a place I got and relax. Why don’t you come with me, let me show you a good time.”

Nancy cocked her head and put on a show of deliberation. “Oh yeah? What kind of a good time?”

“Trust me baby, a real good one,” the man leered.

She looked him over, taking in the cut of his bespoke suit, the silk tie he’d loosened and his Swiss-made watch, the smirk on his overly tanned face. Sure, she was tired from working half the night, but she’d also been working toward this very moment ever since she caught him watching her ass.

“Ok,” Nancy said. “Give me twenty minutes and I’ll meet you out front.”

\---

_Three weeks earlier_

“’Tasha! Girl, how you doing? Didn’t keep you waiting too long, did I?” She looked up from the gossip rag she’d been skimming just in time to raise her own arms before she was engulfed by a strong hug.

“Hey Sam,” said Natasha, smiling warmly as they relaxed the embrace. “It’s fine. My coffee’s not even cooled off enough for me to drink yet.” She placed the tabloid back on its rack, resettled her bag on her shoulder, and picked up her cup from where she’d set it. “Lead the way.”

Sam turned from the newsstand to walk down the subway station stairs. “The VFW’s not far,” he said, lifting his chin in its direction, “just a couple blocks down from here.”

Natasha raised her brows in mild surprise. “We’re meeting your friend at a VFW post?” Vets might not get spat on these days – the memorial wall in DC was dedicated just last month – but many of those she knew still liked to keep certain spaces for themselves.

Sam shrugged. “We get drinks and shoot the shit there sometimes. It’s comfortable, quiet. People mind their own business.”

“Thanks for setting this up, by the way,” said Natasha. “I know you said he’d be hard to convince.”

“He took his time thinking about it, but it turned out easier than I thought,” said Sam. “And after the stories on those kids in Juvie y’all did back in February, helping you out is the least I could do. I mean, work is still hellacious, and you wouldn’t believe how much new paperwork I gotta do now for my cases. But the new bosses _are_ making changes, even if just so’s their own asses don’t get fired too. Who knows, it might even amount to some real change.”

Despite the sarcastic twist to Sam’s smile, Natasha could see the hope and gratitude in it, and she beamed back at him. “I’m glad it’s having some impact,” she said. “Sorry about the paperwork, though.”

Sam laughed. “Nah, I just bitch about it, is all. It’s not so bad. Anyway, don’t thank me for the meeting yet. Bucky’s not the chattiest guy even on his good days, so I don’t know how much help he’ll really be.”

“Bucky? That your friend’s name?”

“Nickname, but yeah.”

“Huh. Alright then.”

Sam gave her an amused look. “Some ace reporter you are, can’t even keep a straight face at just a name. Good thing I told you before meeting him.” Natasha just rolled her eyes and lightly jabbed him in the triceps.

“Hey now, I’m perfectly professional during interviews. And what kind of a name for a grown man is Bucky anyway?” Sam guffawed, which only made Natasha hit him again.

She sipped her coffee as they waited at a crosswalk, watching the breaths of her fellow pedestrians rise in the cold December air and mentally going through notes and prepared questions – not that she had much to go through. For the past few months, she, Clint, and Bobbi had been digging through clips, pestering secretaries, and wheedling for documents at what felt like every desk on every floor in every administrative department in the city. They had breadcrumbs, but not enough for a trail to show Nick and keep him from tossing them back out of his office with barked orders to find some _real_ evidence he could print.

They were running out of options that didn’t involve filing motions in court. Ulrich had refused to commit Legal if they couldn’t show they _had_ a story, not with the opponents they would face, and with their hands tied like that, how could they? Bobbi, ever the realist, had been not so subtly hinting the last two weeks that it might be time to look into other stories, and she was right. But this was too important to drop, Clint had insisted, and Natasha knew he was right, too. He had the best instincts of any journalist she’d known and always hit bullseye, no matter what it took to get there.

So here she was, doing what she did best, finding a way in.

The light changed. Sam lead her across the street and turned the next corner, stopping in front of a beige brick facade topped with the VFW logo and the post number. He showed a card to a man warming himself at a portable heater beside the door and indicated her as his guest. The man nodded at Sam, opened the door, and gestured for them to step inside.

Some natural light was coming through the windows, but it couldn’t get far in the smoky haze that filled the wood paneled room. A bar with well-worn stools lined the far wall, and the wall to the right featured the VFW banner flanked by the American flag and various service flags, with a lectern shoved to one corner. The rest of the space was occupied by a visibly scuffed pool table and round tables draped with faded but clean navy cloths. Natasha regarded the few patrons seated in the wooden chairs ringing the tables and nursing drinks, wondering which one of them was Bucky.

She knew as soon as she saw him. Sam’s greeting only confirmed it.

He was watching them from a table near the bar, a tumbler set before him, glowing cigarette in hand, and every exit and person within view. Longish dark hair shadowed his face, which featured at least a day’s worth of stubble. His posture seemed relaxed, but the looseness of his dark leather jacket failed to hide the coiled alertness that years of experience had taught Natasha to spot. As they approached his table, he stubbed out his cigarette and stood, extending his right hand for her to shake. He had a firm grip, dry and callused.

“James Barnes, but I go by Bucky,” he said in a rough but warm tenor.

“Natasha Romanoff. I write for the _Bugle_. Thank you for meeting me.”

Sam remained standing as she took a seat across from Barnes. “I’ll just be over by the bar,” he said, pointing with his thumb. “Want me to get you anything?”

She shook her head. “I’ve got my coffee here still. You don’t have to wait for me if you need to go.”

“Alright. I’ll catch up with you later, ‘Tasha.”

“Thanks, Sam.” Natasha gave him a small wave and watched him walk up to the bartender, and when she turned back to Barnes, she found him studying her intently. He wasn’t staring like most men did, pushing his desire onto her, but with an evaluating patience, like – like a scout watching troop movements, she thought, remembering where they were. Like Nick had when he interviewed her. Like she did when chatting up a source. Part of her wanted to flinch, another part wanted to hit him, but she simply met his eyes with her own and waited.

A few beats of silence passed. Barnes sat back in his chair and raised his glass to his lips. “You know Sam from work?” he asked.

Natasha mirrored him and drank her now lukewarm coffee. “I met him while doing a story on Social Services a few years ago, yes. We kept in touch afterwards. I’ve been too busy recently to talk as often as we used to, but he’s still a good friend.” Barnes hummed in agreement. “How do you know him?” she asked. “Did you meet him here?”

“Through a mutual friend, actually. I didn’t know he’d served until much later.” He leaned forward suddenly, resting his right arm on the table. “Small talk’s not what you came here for, though. So what is it you can’t find that you’re now talking to a nobody like me for?”

Natasha smiled tightly. Right down to business, then. “We’re looking into connections between a few city officials, some real estate developers, and at least one alleged mob boss involved in the construction industry here in the city. What we have so far is circumstantial or isolated, at best a list of campaign contributions with interesting names, or fraud charges that got dismissed years ago. We know there’s more, though. I’m looking for how it all adds up, how deep the rabbit hole goes.”

Barnes inhaled sharply. “And Sam told you I work for one of those construction businesses, and you thought I might like to talk, see if I’ve seen anything.”

“More or less. He also told me you used to be a cop, a pretty good one.”

Barnes frowned at that. “Yeah, well I ain’t one anymore, just a crippled truck driver now. Mobsters don’t ask guys like me to hang around when they make deals or whatever. Sorry, but I don’t know what I can tell you.”

Natasha was disappointed, and more than a little skeptical of his answer, but mostly she was surprised and annoyed at herself. How did she not notice Barnes had a disability? Why didn’t Sam give her more details about him, and why hadn’t she asked?

To her further irritation, he had read her reaction – she had a good poker face, she couldn’t be this transparent – and was now pushing up the left sleeve of his jacket, revealing a gloved hand and a rubber sleeve that didn’t match his skin tone elsewhere. “I’m not bothered by it, but you understand if I don’t go waving it around either,” Barnes said as he covered his arm again.

“It’s not – I’m sorry. I’m just – I’m supposed to be a good observer. Reporter, you know?” she said with a small laugh at herself.

“Don’t feel bad, I’ve had years of practice.” He grinned, a little self-deprecating smile that transformed his sharp features, revealing a glimpse of a man she could see Sam befriend for his own sake, not from a sense of obligation toward mutual friend or to help a fellow veteran, and Natasha briefly wondered what he was like with his guard lowered.

She grinned back wryly. “Thanks, I feel so much better. But you really haven’t noticed anything about the people you work with? Any unusual excuses? Strange instructions from your supervisor?”

Barnes regarded her for a long moment. “You were an investigator for Beszant, Karpf, and Baginsky,” he said suddenly.

Natasha blinked at the unexpected mention of her old firm and couldn’t think to say anything other than “Yes.” Then her brain caught up. “How do you know?” she asked evenly. “Are they involved?”

“Not that I’m aware. But I remember seeing you with their lawyers at court sometimes, or around the precinct station when you were meeting guys we had in lockup.”

That was so long ago, she wouldn’t have recalled any cases even if she’d known which precinct. “And?”

“Nothing. I’m just curious. Why’d you leave? I bet the pay was way better there.”

Natasha considered her response. She wasn’t in the habit of talking about herself, but Barnes was likely already aware of some of her past, and from the steadiness of his gaze, she knew there was more to his question than he claimed. “They did pay well, and I was the best at what I did,” she said at last. “I enjoyed my work. I liked the challenge, and the thrill when things got dangerous. But the firm was in the business of protecting or enriching people who didn’t deserve either, and eventually I realized I was just part of a means to those ends. The last major case I was on, I met someone who’s now a coworker and one of my closest friends. He convinced me I could apply my skills to better purpose.”

“Why a reporter then? You could have gone to work for the District Attorney's office.”

She looked Barnes square in the eye. “I’ve seen the damage that facts, secrets especially, can do in the wrong hands. I’ve put them there too many times to count. Writing about secrets doesn’t always change things, I know, but I believe the more people who know the truth, the more likely it can be used by the right ones.”

Barnes was silent, stone-faced while he sat absorbing her words. Natasha wondered what he was thinking. When he finally spoke, all he said was, “Ok.”

“Ok?” she echoed, a little confused.

“Ok,” he repeated. “I’ll talk. The people you’re going after, I know a few things about ‘em. Nothing that’ll get you your story directly, but maybe you can get closer to what you need.”

Natasha sat up in her excitement. “Thank you. I can work with that. Even the smallest detail could prove useful.”

“Just one thing I’d like in return, though. You let me help.”

\---

_Now_

Her last tab settled, Nancy went through the kitchen, waving at a few cowrkers as she made her way to the break room. She stretched in front of her locker, wincing a little when her back popped, and sighed with relief when she sat and took off her heels.

“Long night, huh,” said a man’s voice from behind her.

“Isn’t it always,” she said and turned her head to see a tall, dark-haired figure leaning against the back door. “Hey tiger, come to take me home?”

The man straightened and walked over, bending down to give her a kiss. “Couldn’t wait to see you, babe.”

Nancy smiled against his lips and reached up to hold his face against hers, then turned to murmur in his ear, “Kaufman’s taken the bait. I’ll be leaving with him shortly. You know where to go?”

Bucky nodded. “I’ll be in the car, two blocks south from his building,” he murmured back.

She let go, sitting back to give him a dazzling smile, and in a normal voice said, “Perfect. Now get out of here and let me finish up.”

When he was gone, Natasha opened her locker door and eyed her reflection in the mirror on the back. Everything was in place. Time now for the real work.


End file.
